All Good Things
by ruth baulding
Summary: The beginning and ending of something "briefly more" than friendship - the character of Taria Damsin borrowed from Karen Miller's novels. Please note M rating.
1. Chapter 1

**All Good Things**

**Part I.**

* * *

The Living Force pervades all things, flows through them and binds them together.

Except when it does not; when those vessels of Light sworn to its service voluntarily isolate themselves, making of their hearts and minds lonely islands in a sea of luminance, fortresses raised against grief, against sympathy, against prurient inquiry. When this happens, the Living Force laps forlornly at their shores, forbidden entry, forbidden communion.

And this refusal of Light is a refusal of others, for what is a sentient being – especially a Jedi – if not an embodiment of the Force's universal power, a speck of life floating in an ocean of Life? When such barriers are raised, these others are also forced into exile, into a loneliness difficult to describe, for those raised and suckled on Light are not accustomed to such suffocating disparateness.

It is as though the world has fractured into shards, a broken mirror lying scattered, light refracted but no longer unitary. It hurts. But Jedi do not wallow in pain, they release it to the Force. When they can.

Obi-Wan sets the tea bowl down in front of Qui-Gon Jinn. The tall man nods, but this is not him. This is merely the outward echo of the true man, the one who has withdrawn into an unfathomable fastness, into his own solitary being. Qui-Gon, for all intents and purposes, has disappeared, for the time being. Since Tahl Uvain's death, grief has taken the Jedi master hostage and buried him deep in the bowels of its impalpable stronghold, leaving his Padawan to grieve for what grief has wrought.

The young Jedi is not content with this state of affairs, but neither does he have any power to change it. He must endure, patiently. And that is difficult for so many reasons. Without Qui-Gon Jinn, he is substantially disconnected from his world; for the master is the keystone to his own slowly evolving edifice of devotion, the foundation of his still-evolving identity as a Jedi. A Padawan orphaned would be assigned to another master; but one abandoned only invisibly, only in fact and not in appearance, is without recourse. He must fend for himself in a situation which none of his peers can quite comprehend.

After all, their masters live in more than name.

He goes to the dojo for solace, though he knows he will find only distraction.

The Unifying Force also binds things together, weaving destinies into a twisted skein, drawing surfeit and need into a unity of opposites, working all things toward an event horizon of balance. So he is not surprised to find the salle empty save for Taria Damsin, an old friend.

And she is also trapped in unspeakable loneliness. It bleeds from her in a wide pool, staining the Force with silent tears.

She is not surprised to find him here, either. It was meant to be, and they have no power to change what has been so cunningly woven by fate. So they merely bow to one another, recognizing the preordained necessity of this moment, and begin the kata in unison. They did not need to confer; it is the natural choice, one bringing their mirrored motions spiraling closer and closer until the dance is a slow and laborious synchrony, a measured catharsis. At the end, they stand so close that their very breaths rise and fall in unison, each exhalation softly stirring the other's thin Padawan braid.

And their isolation now encompasses the other.

"Taria. What is it?"

She throws back her head, golden eyes glittering, turquoise hair glinting in the soft illumination, dusking light dancing on some exotic ocean's waves. "Do you ever see.. the future?"

He would normally recoil from such a question. The future looms blackly, the Dark mocking him, tempting him to despair. He has always kept his back to its insults, his face to the Light. But here, in this tiny oasis of honesty, he knows he must answer. "Sometimes. But it is always in motion. Such visions are not to be heeded overmuch."

Taria has not stepped backward, He can still feel her warm breath flutter over his skin, coiling in the hollow of his throat. "I saw my own death," she tells him, lightly.

"Oh. I'm sorry. But … "

"I don't want to die. Not crippled and useless. I want to die fighting, Obi-Wan."

Why is she telling him this? Because they both know there is nothing he can do to change the future, not in that way. Not in flagrant defiance of the Force's will. He cannot, and he would not. And Tahl. Tahl so wounded, so helpless, crushed like a haffa blossom, she who was always triple-forged Bespari steel in life. So much like Taria, even down to her golden eyes. Is Taria also to be so crushed, her light broken and her lithe body limp, crumbling into ash even before she has perished? He swallows, and fights down the surge of grief. Qui Gon has not wept in months, and so why should he?

Taria presses her fingers into the corners of his eyes, playfully damming the leaking tears.. "Don't cry."

"I'm sorry. The future doesn't exist. There is only the present moment."

She likes this answer better, but her lips curve in a sad smile. "I can't find my way back to it," she confesses.

He cannot bear that she, too, is lost. So long as his pain is contained within the bounds of his own psyche, it can be tolerated, endured. But to see such raw devastation on Taria's face, to know that suffering has spread, plague-like, across his carefully constructed barriers, and clawed its way into another's heart… this is too much. There must be something he can do. Or say. But he doesn't know what.

They walk, alone through crowded corridors, upward, to the residential levels. Taria has chosen private quarters, rather than shared accommodations. Her master is the intimidating Iktotchi sentinel, Yarriss Moll; he considers it improper to house his female Padawan under the same roof. He is stern, and traditional, not one inclined to lend sympathetic ear to her present distress.

The room is bare, cold and scoured as their two hearts, an emptiness occupied now by two hollow lanterns, vessels which should shine with Light but are guttering in the void, one chilled by the future, another by the recent past. Between these two aching extremes there lies a narrow isthmus of balance, a present moment in which the Living Force might rekindle their stuttering flames.

Taria has been beloved by him since earliest childhood, when she savagely bit his ankle in the crèche, thus sealing a lifelong friendship in blood and tears. And now, Obi-Wan would gladly expend his last feeble flicker of joy, and be snuffed out utterly, if only he could spark her back to vibrancy. It would be a sacrifice willingly made. He wishes he could tell her this, give this gift to her, for then at least suffering would claim one less victim.

He lowers his shields, trembling, because he has not dared such a thing in all the long weeks and months since Tahl's murder – and Taria does the same.

Except she is also _here-_ in his arms – and their tentative surrender has melted into something else, a bit unexpected, but not… unpleasant.

Taria's mouth is soft, and warm, and –

-_there is no passion, there is_ –

-Taria, her skin sweet spicy and silken, her _touch,_ her fingers tangling in his hair, skimming down his neck, _so -!_

-_there is the Force, not passion , the Force-_

-but this _is _ the Force, too. This is the Living Force, pervading them, flowing through them, binding them together. They pervade each other, the embrace deepening until this is not enough, this is merely a _taste,_ an aching enticement, and they must flow through each other, bind each other together into life, into the present moment, into the Force.

They must part to breathe.

"Do you remember when I bit you, in the crèche?" she asks, her fire already leaping back to life, joyful vitality dancing in her golden eyes, mischief cascading through the Force, making him smile.

"Yes."

And she bites him again, this time on the lower lip, and it _hurts, _ but there are no tears and accusations, no rush to the clan-master to complain, no soulful apology. The pain explodes hot where her teeth sink in, but it also erupts in his belly, and lower, until he is arching into it and twisting his hands through her waterfall of gorgeous green-blue, unbinding the braid, parting the strands, untying the knotted path until it spills untrammeled down her back and –

They must breathe. It is like meditation. Inhale.

"Do you remember Push-Feather in the gardens?" He has other memories. They are good ones.

Taria smiles, and now joy burns steadily in amber pools, the future retreating before the leaping tongues of gold and wild, white-edged Light. "Yes," she laughs, soft and deep, mirth welling from childlike depths, forgotten realms of innocence.

They play Push-Feather again, now, until she topples him over onto her low sleep-couch, victorious. Only this time he does not shove her away but instead pulls her closer, until her triumphant straddle across his lap transforms into another embrace, the Force surging higher like a rising tide, their hands stripping away layers of cream-colored cloth, soft barriers dropping away, cast aside and released just as grief and fear roll away from them, purged and conquered by this strange joy, this novel meditation.

_There is no passion-_

Her breasts are the Force, too – smooth-firm beneath his fingers, gently swollen with Life, with abundance, with welcome. Between them is a sweat-bedewed valley, scented of Taria. He pulls her closer, suckling at this proffered fountain, this delicate curve where, in another world, another path, new life would find its first taste of Light. Taria grasps him, fingers pulling at his hair, her soft-hard body tightening beneath his searching hands. Shields down, souls mingling, her ache becomes his, and longing floods molten in his bowels, lower, and lower, until he is taut with it, gasping for breath or for her, or for the Force – he isn't sure which, or if these are even different.

"Do you remember … our first saber class?" she whispers in his ear, and then _bites_ – gently, but hard enough to make him whimper.

"Yes." He remembers the burn. The horror in her eyes when she realized she had hit him, the knowledge that in _real life_ this would be an impaling blow.

They reenact it now, in real life, moaning together as they pervade each other, flow together, bind and are bound. And they enact other scenes, some which were, and some which are now, and others which may yet be, until past and future are taken up, transformed and consummated in this present moment. And the guttering flames are rekindled, roaring into a bonfire of Life, of unbearable joy, of the _other,_ until there is no Taria and no Obi-Wan, only the Force.

_There is passion. There is the Force._

_There is only the Force._

And when it releases them again, Obi-Wan is on top, though he does not remember how. It has been an eternity since they began this kata, and he is utterly spent, empty yet full, exhausted yet fulfilled. Taria lies beneath him, satiated, grounded in the present moment, and gloriously alive. She shines with life. She shines with the Force.

"Did I do that?"

"You gundark," she snorts. Tracing a hand over his face, tenderly. "Get off me."

They part, and discover that gross matter makes its own messy demands. This is new to both of them. Perhaps they will learn more of it, and perhaps not. It takes some time to restore order, to re-assume their identities, their roles and duties. They take turns in the 'fresher, and they dress each other. The lightsabers are replaced last of all, the gleaming hilts hanging at either hip, just covered by a sweep of brown cloth.

In the outside world, some time has passed. Grief has been vanquished without fanfare; there will be no outward difference. They bow to one another, gravely, thanksgiving and benediction at once.

And they go their separate ways for now, Taria to dwell in the present moment,; he to wait patiently for another's grief to pass. Death will not spare her in the end, and sorrow will not pass him by. But they have, for now, shown compassion to a friend in a time of mutual need.


	2. Chapter 2

**All Good Things**

* * *

**Part II.**

* * *

The sun rises at the beginning of the day. By the chronometer, it is a bit past fifth hour; dawn has no special significance in the weary procession of minutes marked by the timepiece. The machine is a prisoner of its own limitations, scratching out the endless days of its imprisonment on a silicate jail-wall, each identical to the last, unbroken by celebration or mourning, unadorned by beginnings and endings. But true dawn occurs at the birth of time, the infant stirrings of life as the planet greets its star, as the heavens breathe in the first taste of light and fill with splendor.

Qui Gon Jinn greets the sun every morning, too, at this hour of beginnings. The Living Force sings at this hour, a great swelling chorus that echoes down the passages of the day, filling them as color now fills the domed sky. He bids the sun farewell each night as well – and his student joins him for this solemnity, a ritual they have shared over countless years, on so many systems that the diverse stars blend into one archetypal sun, into the brimming radiance of Light. The master would prefer that his Padawan were here, too, at the day's beginning – but while the spirit is willing, the demands of adolescence, compounded with the rigors of training, put too great a burden on the flesh. Obi Wan can drag himself off his sleep couch with dutiful alacrity when need be; but he has not yet learned to love the pre-dawn serenity, the hush before the world's inception.

He still has much to learn of the Living Force.

Qui Gon's mouth thins, and he amends that statement. His Padawan has some important things to learn about the Living Force; but of late, there are other lessons which he has displayed a heady enthusiasm to learn, apart from any guidance or discipline. It is a reckless way to grow wise, a passionate kind of diligence. Qui Gon is far too experienced to be surprised by this turn of events; and far too old to find it amusing. He has raised other boys, after all, and is himself acquainted – in a manner befitting a Jedi's life- with the particular _kata_ his student is so devoted to mastering.

But this path is not an easy one, and allows no margin of error. Balance is essential: balance between the twin chasms of instinct and will. A fall to either side is deadly, a spiraling plunge in to Darkness. Qui Gon's duty is to forge the true path, lighting the narrow way that wends safely between these perils. He takes this burden seriously. After all, one of his sons in the Force has already fallen headfirst into the abyss, never to return. He will not make that mistake twice.

The door to their shared quarters slides open with the faintest hiss of pressure pistons, and soft footfalls traverse the common room. A hesitance as the newcomer observes Qui Gon through the transparisteel balcony window, and then a firm step bringing him over the threshold and into the crisp morning air. The sun's crescent renders the horizon in molten fire; above them, the high walls of the Temple glow with an answering fire.

"Obi Wan. Where were you last night?"

His Padawan looks at him – still _up,_ and Qui Gon suspects that it will always be _up, _in more ways than one – and there is no deceit in his clear eyes or in the Force. But the master does not fail to notice the subtle evasion of the next words. "I'm sorry, master – I did not mean to cause concern by my absence."

Apology comes easily to Obi Wan. His humility crafts both eloquent and concise masterpieces of contrition, and occasionally wordless ones as well. They are all sincere, often the only things spoken without sophisticated palimpsests of irony and droll humor, without the veiling and concealing which comes as second nature to the silver-tongued Padawan. An apology is a rare window into the young man's heart, and a thing to be treasured. But this one, while also sincere and pure of intent, also serves as feint and parry.

"You didn't answer the question," Qui Gon smiles, accepting the beautiful gift of apology as he has accepted all the others… but still pressing his attack.

"I didn't leave the Temple," Obi Wan assures him. Open sincerity is gently overlaid with humor, now – a subtle shift of mood, as impalpable as a mind trick. "After last time at Dexter's, I never wish to face the horrors of Coruscant again."

The jest is a tactic meant to delay, to buy time. It does not distract either of them from the true intent of this conversation. "Perhaps I should confine you to quarters, then. For your own safety."

The young Jedi affects a bland affability. "That would be a welcome relief from our customary pursuits," he replies, his eyes and his mind elsewhere entirely. Qui Gon follows his gaze across the megalopolis' grid-scored plains of steel and glass; but he cannot follow his student's thoughts so easily.

The rising sun now spreads like a flood of gold over the city, and the wall behind them erupts into glorious white fire. They squint, shade their eyes against the influx, and yet do not yet turn away. They are Jedi; they bask in the light a little longer, the incipient confrontation forgotten, smoothed into unitary luminance. But the moment passes. Time flows on, and the issue will not wait forever. Qui Gon leads the way indoors.

"I hope I need not remind you that sufficient rest is important; we might be called out on a mission at any moment, and I need you at your best."

"I did sleep, master." Obi Wan is eager to dispel any doubts about this, to demonstrate his devotion to duty, to every minor responsibility laid upon him. Qui Gon has no doubt that his studies, his saber form, his other duties have in no wise suffered. If recent dalliance has had any effect at all, it is to lend renewed vigor to these familiar routines. He surmises that Obi Wan has meditated more often, more deeply, more rewardingly as well. The young Jedi would never tolerate a lapse in his discipline, in his devotion. Even when Obi Wan strays, he will not leave the path.

He has much to learn.

They stop in the center of the sparsely furnished living space. "With whom?" Qui Gon bluntly inquires. He believes in the direct approach, and as the master, he has a right and a need to know.

The flush creeping over his Padawan's cheeks is something Qui Gon has not seen since Melida-Daan, mortification bleeding crimson beneath pale skin, melting into the Force, graceful, somehow innocent, as _open_ as one of the delicately crafted apologies. Only this is spontaneous, an eruption of protest springing from deep wellsprings, from a self that is kept hidden even from Qui Gon. He has desecrated a mystery by naming it… yet there is no choice. Too much is at stake.

Obi Wan is no coward, and no liar. He does not look away. "Taria Damsin."

Ah. Qui Gon was not aware that the friendship had widened its parameters. Perhaps he should have noticed it; but he must admit he has not been entirely himself, this last year. He might have missed much, in those months of his grief; indeed, he might have occasioned much, and still been blind to it. In the face of this stark truth, he momentarily loses his nerve. And he wishes, suddenly, forlornly, that Tahl were still alive. She would have insight, wisdom disguised as trenchant criticism. "I see," he murmurs.

Obi Wan holds his gaze, waiting, his deep breaths unconsciously attuned to Qui Gon's.

"We will speak of this later," the Jedi master decides.

Later, he watches the upper level saber class unfold into a synchronized dance, blue and green light wavering in the cool, cycled air. The drills are complex, and the sabers carve blank space into deadly swaths, beauty and danger intertwined, lying nestled close together, inseparable. Obi Wan's form is perfect this morning – there is nothing to critique, nothing to improve, though Qui Gon watches with an expert eye. The flawless performance invites only praise… and the attention of both Cin Drallig and many of the other students. Qui Gon folds his arms and purses his lips as the swordsmaster pairs his Padawan with a young Ghainian, a girl – a _woman-_ whose richly hued skin is offset by an impossible crown of turquoise hair, bound around her head in braided coils. She is as beautiful and deadly as a phlogista moth. And she is watching her opponent with a laughing knowledge, a supple loosening of posture that tells Qui Gon everything he needs to know.

Obi Wan smiles back , a full open smile, enough to illumine the distant walls and ceiling, enough to coax the Force itself into melting good humor; yet also a secret and teasing smile, one full of double and triple meanings, allusions, private jokes and textured ironies. Qui Gon scowls. Their path is too narrow and treacherous to allow such a broad and careless joy. It will overbalance in the end, topple into pain.

He does not even need to observe the ensuing match, the strikes that graze with exquisite accuracy just shy of the other's flesh, the complete lack of defensive tension, the binds that bring the duelists a hair's breadth too close, breath mingling with the burning effluvia of the blades. He does not need to see Obi Wan purposefully slacken his guard, allow his agile foe to slide past his block and make a sweeping Djem So attack, one he parries only at the last moment, so that they are locked together, the sabers spitting and squealing over their heads, their bodies arching in a sculptured opposition, grace and strength compacted into a happy stalemate. They hold the position one heartbeat too long before disengaging.

Qui Gon releases a long breath and wonders what in stars' name is wrong with Cin, that he does not perceive these two infant moths fluttering in each other's alluring lamp-light.

At the edge of the sparring arena he intercepts his Padawan before the instructional period is finished. "Get dressed," he says quietly. "We will walk in the gardens before noon-meal."

"Yes, master." Obi Wan is too wise to ask for an explanation. They both know what topic much be broached, and perhaps they both know the inevitable conclusion of their postponed conversation. The matter can be resolved quickly, with finality. But it must be settled. There is no other acceptable option.

The indoor arboretum is fecund with new life, with blossoming things. Golden shafts spill lethargically from the illumination bank overhead, rivers of luminescence in which whole armada of pollen granules and seed pods float, bobbing and twirling, as the cycled air carries them softly to new places, to the rich loam where they may settle and germinate. Today, it would seem, every petal is unfurled, enticing dark centers stretched out, generous and trusting, toward the frolicking moths and tiny _bezzils_ which pollinate them, flitting their frenzied way between one bright cluster and the next. The irony is not wasted on Qui Gon; he grimaces in recognition of the cosmic joke. The Force sometimes has a sense of humor as devious and double-edged as his Padawan's. There is an affinity there, he must admit.

They choose a familiar path. In truth, every path here is familiar. There is little more to be discovered within this green and misting sanctuary, and there is some safety in that. It is a good place to broach a new topic, a fine place to speak with perfect honesty, for there is little novelty to distract the senses. Though there is a seductive perfume in the air, the mingled siren call of a hundred different species' flowers, the incense of fertile nature. He sighs and strikes out toward the waterfall, where the sharp and mineral scent of water might clear some of the soporific headiness away.

Obi Wan follows, quietly, waiting for Qui Gon to make the first move. He has learned patience in the last years, and learned it well. They watch the tumbling falls for a long while, until the roar of the white roil at their base fades to subliminal hum, a thing taken for granted by the senses, the ever-present pulse of existence.

"You've known Taria Damsin many years," Qui Gon observes, breaking the flow.

Obi Wan glances sideways, not defensive. "Yes. We played in the crèche, even. She's a good friend."

Qui Gon decides that he prefers Bant Eerin as a friend for his apprentice. Bant is compassionate, wise, and stolid; and she is also a Mon Calamarian, which aspect of her identity he has never before considered a particular benefit or detriment. But webbed extremities and amphibian gills do not pose so many difficulties as taut curves and luxurious exotic blue-green tresses. He exhales and changes tack. "The last year has been difficult, I have been somewhat absent."

"I have nothing to complain of, master." Obi Wan would forgive his own murderer; this is a truth about him. So a withdrawn master is nothing, a mere anomaly to be forgotten like a passing windstorm. His skies are not darkened by any grudge, his horizons not yet circumscribed by irreparable regret.

Such trust evokes a smile, another timeless pause in which they watch the cascading stream pour itself over the artificial cliff, shattering to splintered light as it pounds against the stones below. Droplets settle in their hair, on the fibers of their cloaks, an ephemeral dusting of moisture, of glittering tears .

"I think, Padawan, that your relationship with Taria Damsin has grown beyond friendship. Am I right?"

The trademark furrow appears between the young man' s eyebrows, the mark of concern or introspection, and he clears his throat. "Um… yes, master." He shifts, looking down. "At least, from a certain point of view." And up again, searching for answers in Qui Gon's gaze… or maybe offering his own soul up for examination, hoping that the master will be able to make better sense of it than he can.

Careful. Obi Wan would never _use_ another being, as an object, as a tool for pleasure. There is no doubt in the older man's mind about this, and he surmises that the two Padawans have been offering mutual comfort, exploring the bounds of compassion with an innocence paradoxically sheltered and cultivated by the harsh realities of their lives, by the terrible injustice and abuse they have witnessed during missions. It would not be the first time that two young Jedi have harbored and rekindled each other's guttering flames in this way. It is natural enough, and the Living Force is complex, multivalent, sometimes dizzying.

"Do you love her?"

That question catches the Padawan off guard. He thinks about it for a moment. "Well, of course," he answers. "She is a good friend. Is that… is that problematic, master?"

Distrust and censure are two things they cannot afford to indulge any longer. Qui Gon intends neither of these, anyway. He must be cautious, tread delicately. He places a hand on his apprentice's shoulder. "I do not wish it to become so, young one."

The furrow deepens into troubled frown. "Will it be?" the Padawan asks, bemused.

"Yes. Eventually. You know this, Obi Wan, at some level. I only wish for you to meditate on it now, rather than later when it may be too late, and to act accordingly."

It is not a command. It is barely any form of instruction or guidance at all. It is an act of _trust,_ a pledge of confidence and compassion. This is not so bad as it might be, a mere shadow of the renunciation which might yet come – in some future, in some other context- and which might exact a devastating price. Yet it still hurts. Qui Gon recognizes this, and derives no pleasure from the flicker of pain that crosses his student's face.

"Oh," Obi Wan says, swallowing the ache in one hard lump. He looks away, but not disrespectfully. "Of course, master. I … I will meditate on it. And I will do what is right," he promises.

"I know," Qui Gon gently assures him, and they walk on.

As the day wanes, Qui Gon meditates. Afterwards, he remains kneeling alone in the small chamber he has chosen for the purpose. Tranquil in the Living Force, he knows that his apprentice has come to a firm resolution. He can feel its steady current, like a warm tide running deep in the universal energy. This crisis has passed with as little pain, as little upset as humanly possible. He should be grateful for that, for the easing of his path as teacher. There are other possible ways to deal with this: he is aware that some masters might have chosen to look the other way. After all, the Code admits of a wide spectrum of interpretations. Some might expect him to be of this school, but his maverick streak is not one which tends toward indulgence or laxity. And yet others – perhaps the majority – might have seen this as an occasion for strict discipline. But Qui Gon is not sure what there is to punish. Not deceit, not explicit defiance, certainly. Qui Gon's own master, Dooku, would have risen to the occasion with characteristic severity, while old Yoda most likely would have made light of it, publicly and loudly exclaiming over it until the culprits desisted out of sheer mortification. Qui Gon does not have it in him to do any of these things. He cannot help but think of the two young Jedi as pathetic life forms. Surely there is pathos in crushing the first tender shoots of a green and growing thing?

Tahl would have understood why he feels more pity than disapproval. But Tahl is dead, reunited to the Force. And for the first time since her passing, he sees that her death itself may also be a mercy. Tahl and he played together in the crèche, too; and they grew to be childhood friends, and then comrades in their later years. They too smothered the kindling sparks of desire, burying the hot embers in their hearts until they slowly smoldered their way into the open again, transmuted into something far, far more dangerous. Suppressed, undefined longing had taken root in the soil of friendship… and _attachment –_ that was the euphemistic term, was it not?- had been the result.

He would never wish that pain on Obi Wan. It is better this way. A small cruelty now is far preferable to a vast one later, one like that inflicted on his own heart by time and the Force. This is only the ghostly, physical echo of that poisoned barb. They will pull it out, and apply salve to the wound – work, play – and move onward. This is the only way.

Tahl would have understood. And in time Obi Wan will, too.

The sun sets at the day's ending. By the chronometer it is late; Coruscant's northerm hemisphere inclined like a doting lover toward its distant star, the early summer days drag on to a slow-burning conclusion, vivid trails of color rising into the skies from the sinking sun like incense, like solstice bonfires. At this hour Qui Gon always observes the rites of ending, bidding the day farewell, bearing witness to the end. For this daily ceremony, Obi Wan is almost always present. The Unifying Force settles upon them with the dusking purple of oncoming night, with the sudden transparency of the heavens to limitless infinifty beyond. The boy is _akin_ to evening, to the majesty of endings, to the oncoming night. He welcomes the veiling darkness with stoic acceptance, with deep wisdom. Perhaps he sees not the expiring day, but the promise of eternity in the cyclical return of night. Perhaps he feels most attuned to the Force when the last rays of light reach longingly over the horizon and the bleak stars shine overhead, tracing immense destinies and boundless futures.

For one so young, he displays a better understanding of _endings_ than beginnings, of age than innocence. The eyes that watch shadows fall over the city are old, weighted with inchoate premonition, echoes of things to come, of things to be lost, of whatever other vague certainties the Force sees fit to reveal. Qui Gon sighs. It seems petty to rob such a soul of his brief share in youthful folly – but the time has come, like premature age, and there is naught to do but move forward.

It is Obi Wan who breaks the silence. And this is fitting, for in the final reckoning, the decision was his. "I spoke to Taria today, master," he says quietly, dutifully. "We reached an agreement. And she does understand. We both do."

Relief was not the emotion he expected to feel at this pronouncement, but he has already released it into the Force, so that matters little. "She is a wise woman, then."

"She is a good friend," Obi Wan affirms.

Qui Gon is secretly pleased to hear him say _is_ and not _was; _the friendship will continue undimished, then. Something at least has been salvaged. The last pennants of crimson and gold flutter into extinction on the horizon, and full night ascends its throne for the next nine or ten hours. The dark is short, and the two dawn stars – Coruscant's sunward sister-planets, barren vessels of reflected light – will rise before the restless night is well established. Then there will be time to soothe the scars left by today's _ending._ There will be time to teach and learn, and grow further, deeper in the Force. They will not speak of this again, in all likelihood.

"Master?"

"You are still disturbed. What is it?" One more word, one more question, something unresolved, an obstacle to true acceptance.

Obi Wan deliberately folds his hands into opposite sleeves, fingers only minutely brushing against the hems. Years ago they would have lingered, fretted nervously with the edges of his cloak's wide sleeves. "I… it did not seem _dark,_ master."

"Not everything discouraged or forbidden is dark, Padawan. Some such things are good, in and of themselves, or in their proper contexts; you must simply be sure that they do not eclipse the higher and greater good."

"Yes, I know."

They are silent for a while longer. The sunset has long since faded. The moment too in nearly expired. Qui Gon turns, and his Padawan turns with him, away from oncoming night and back toward the hushed serenity of the Temple. He hesitates, seeking the right words. "All good things must, in time, come to an end. That is all."

Obi Wan nods, gravely. "Yes, master."

And they continue on their way, cloaked in thoughtfulness. They will retire to their quarters, each to the solitude of his own rest, to the embrace of the Force. The night will be of short duration, and dawn will come early. And then there will be another beginning.

FINIS


End file.
